Cheshire Cat Grin
by tipsyonvodkatonic
Summary: Rosalie Hale seemed to have it all: looks, wealth, power.  Now it's senior year and she finds that the closer you are to the top, the longer you have to fall.  Non-vampires.  Possible RxE.  Rated M for drug abuse, eating disorders, language, and sex.
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Twilight, I would turn _Breaking Dawn_ into a musical. But since that isn't happening, I obviously don't own it ^_^

* * *

_"Before the night owl / before the animal noises / closed circuit cameras / before you're comatose" -Radiohead_

The first thing I remember is the rain. Even when it wasn't pouring, evidence of the incessant precipitation lingered. The humidity. Glistening asphalt. Puddles—dirty, imperfect reflections of what we think we see. The green. Green clinging to every branch, every hill, even the walls of the cookie-cutter houses.

The only other things I bother to remember are vague snippets of what used to be my world, a random picture-book assortment of memories torn, tattered, and worn by the passing of time.

My house, large, landscaped, decorated to perfection, empty…a house that never was a home. THEIR house, warm, cozy, quaint, brimming with family photos, apple-scented candles, and Paula Deen cheesiness. There's one particular crisp evening sometime in October, the air heavy with the scents of decaying leaves, pumpkins, and other smells that remind me, for whatever reason, of childhood. The playground. That never-changing billboard right beside Benders. Bathrooms. The time I did one too many lines and all I could do was jump on the trampoline, tears ruining my mascara. His hands. A day at La Push, all of us tan, glistening with sweat, young, free, at least for a day. His eyes. Mirrors. His hair. The wind. His smile. His frowns when he tried to save me.

I remember jealousy, anger, hate, and later, regret, constantly nipping at my carefully constructed numbness.

But that seems like a long time ago, when I was a different soul in the same shell. It's time to disappear.

_A year earlier…_


	2. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Twilight, I would turn _Breaking Dawn_ into a musical. But since that isn't happening, I obviously don't own it ^_^_

* * *

_"Living in the sprawl / Dead shopping malls rise like mountains beyond mountains / And there's no end in sight / I need the darkness, someone please cut the lights" -Arcade Fire_

When I was young, my mother told me that every time it rained, the angels were crying. However, this was when we lived in San Diego, land of sunny smiles and perfect weather. I don't think she would have used this metaphor if we were living in Forks at the time.

Because the angels must be fucking sobbing over this godforsaken town every day.

I am currently in my bathroom, staring out the window at the depressing late-summer world outside of it. I have been doing this for the past 15 minutes because, no matter how soggy the day, the rain and fog are still less disheartening than my own reflection. The rain, at least, is real, and every moment of my day from this point forward will be entirely fake, from straightening my pretend blonde hair to watching my parents pretend they still have a real marriage to pretending that I am actually in love with my meathead quarterback boyfriend, Emmett.

About me. I'm Rosalie. I'm 5'8". I'm 17 years old. I'm cynical. I don't believe in love. I'm naturally brunette. I'm partial to Hunter S. Thompson and the early works of Bret Easton Ellis. I own an Xbox and probably have more gamer points than any boy I know. My music taste tends to err on the hipster side of things. I am, basically, completely average and somewhat nerdy. There is nothing special about me.

Nobody will see this part of me. Today, when I strut into Forks Fucking High School for the first day of my senior year, everyone will, once again, see "Rosalie," Drama Queen and Perfect Bitch Extraordinaire. "Rosalie" is never down. She always has a good comeback. She never has time to read or write because she's too busy having like the best social life ever!1!1!1! She always has a fake-ass, bleached white, Cheshire cat smile plastered on her face because when you're size 2 head cheerleader with a hot boyfriend and a rich father, what's there to frown about?

Here's a little secret: a couple of times a day, I sneak off to the bathroom to "powder my nose," because this façade (and my aforementioned size 2 figure) would be fucking impossible to keep up without a little help from Colombia's finest.

My phone rings, jerking me out of my sullen reverie. I'm tempted to ignore whatever asshole is calling me at 7 AM on a Monday until I see that it's my darling brother Jasper—two years older and far, far away at the University of Arizona. I answer. "Darling Jasper. What rouses you so early on a Monday?"

"Au contraire, sis. I'm just heading to bed now."

"Well played. Crew team shenanigans?"

He snorts. "Ding ding ding. Cacti and penguins were involved. Anyways, I just wanted to mock you for still having one year of high school left. Ready to dominate their world once again?"

"Oh, I've never been more thrilled. Have I told you how much I hate you for not being stuck in this hellhole?"

"Only 507 times. How are the parental units? Still living the American dream?"

"Dad's still banging his Swiss secretary and Mom's still strung out on Valium, if that's what you mean."

"Inspirational, those two." I hear a female tittering in the background. "Anyways, my, ah, bed is calling my name. Hang in there, sis. Don't forget that you're Rosalie Fucking Hale."

"Uh-huh. Wrap it before you tap it."

"You filthy minded minx! Love ya, Lee."

Jasper is an asshole. He also happens to be my favorite person on the planet. Though he's cocky, aggressive, and stubborn, he's also hilarious and 100% genuine. He will look you right in the face and tell you that you're a fucking idiot. Like me, he was a hot, popular partier in high school. Unlike me, he actually had confidence—he didn't have to fake it.

Things were a little more bearable when he was around.

I finish slapping layers of makeup on my face and head downstairs. Our house: large, expertly designed, cold. Stainless steel, minimalistic furniture, and black and white abound. Our house looks like one of those conceptual houses you see in magazines that you would never actually want to live in. More museum installation than actual family dwelling, there is no warm feeling of home here. Like the rest of the Hale Way of Life, it's all for show.

I decide to skip breakfast (again) and head out the door into the miserable rain. Let the games begin.


	3. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Twilight, I would turn Breaking Dawn into a musical. But since that isn't happening, I obviously don't own it ^_^_

* * *

_"And as things fell apart / Nobody paid much attention" - Talking Heads_

My life is completely ruled by numbers. For example, I weighed exactly 121.8 pounds this morning. I know that this is exactly 11.8 pounds from where I want to be. It will take me exactly 12 minutes to drive from my house to Forks Fucking High School. There are exactly 360 parking spots in the student parking lot, which, surprisingly, is more than they actually need. I have only survived 5 days of my senior year, and there's 175 fucking days left. And I know that Jessica Fucking Stanley is supposed to give me exactly 15 Klonopins and there are only 10 in this Ziploc bag.

"Stop dicking me around, Jess. I'm not a fucking idiot. I happen to make note of every deal I'm promised," I say, pointing to a memo on my Blackberry, "and you're five fingers short of a hand here."

She looks at me with those stupid, unsure puppy-dog eyes, twirling an unfortunately frizzy piece of hair around her stumpy little finger. "Like, I'm pretty sure I said ten. Umm. I kind of need the rest. For my prescription."

I take a step towards her and give a quick thanks to the genetic gods for granting me with height—it makes it much less challenging to be intimidating. "Jessica," I drawl, my voice dripping like oil and saccharine, "I need five more. Right now. If you want to see any money for this pathetic deal, you will comply."

As Jessica stammers excuses, I ask myself why I even bother. It's not like I couldn't run crying to my shrink and get an even more potent prescription. It's just much more fun throwing my weight around, seeing how, for no discernable reason, people are terrified of me. Plus, I know for a fact that Jessica, like yours truly, is the product of an unhappy marriage. Unlike me, her family doesn't have a river of cash to numb the pain of the American nuclear family gone wrong. She could really use the money. Who said I don't give back to the community?

I take a deep breath and smile at her, much as one would smile at a misbehaving 5-year-old with Asperger's. "Alright, Jessica. I understand that some of us are actually affected psychologically by the banalities of high school. For that, I pity you and grant you your five extra fucking pills this week. You can make it up to me by bringing me a complimentary ounce of your dad's homegrown by Saturday." A stunned look crosses her face. I pat her head like a little dumb puppy and wag my finger at her as I strut off. "Nice talking to you, Jess!"

Exactly fifteen minutes later and I feel it—the familiar blanket of numbness wrapping around me, cushioning me from the world. The cold, cinder block hallways, the desperate flyers for start-of-the-year club meetings, the slamming lockers no longer affect me. I am making out with Emmett against my locker, hoping that his aggressive dry humping will at least help me burn some calories. From here on, my day will pass by in a series of disconnected clips that I can't quite piece together into a meaningful whole.

* * *

Seven minutes later, I am Rosalie Fucking Hale, following a detour to French class before taking over the fucking world. My best friend, Alice, is buzzing in my ear, terribly concerned about her decision to wear jeggings today. I assure her that, since she's roughly the size of a pixie, she can pull them off, even though I'm secretly smirking at the vague camel toe that she's been sporting all morning.

* * *

It's lunchtime. I'm at the "jock" table, surrounded by a table of the Northwest's finest idiots. I pick at my Cobb salad. Emmett's hand is groping my ass. I accidentally drop my container of dressing on him.

* * *

An hour later, I'm strutting back down the hall to English, flanked by Alice and Lauren, my supposed other best friend. They're yammering about cheerleading practice this afternoon, fighting over who will get to be the lead flyer. As captain, I contemplate instituting a mandatory weigh-in for the whole squad simply for the sheer cacophony that would ensue.

* * *

And now I'm in English. As I made Mr. Nelson cry last time he called on me, I feel safe zoning out. I observe my so-called classmates. Emmett is beside me in the back, trying pathetically to hide the fact that he's actually high, asleep, or both. There's Alice and Lauren, snickering and passing notes back and forth. Jessica in the front row, gnawing her fingernails like she forgot to eat breakfast. Mike Newton, who has tried to sleep with me exactly 45 times, despite absolutely no encouragement. I almost admire his determination.

And Edward Cullen.

Edward Fucking Cullen.

Edward happens to be Alice's cousin. He's one of those boys that you can just tell have never NOT been loved. His parents are still together and just as in love as the day they met. Everything about him indicates that he goes home to a homemade dinner every night, during which his family makes conversation that is NOT intended to make him feel inferior. When Alice and I were younger, we used to play at the Cullens' house. Esme, Edward's mother, would always have some form of delicious, fresh-baked pie ready for us. That was before, you know, high school cliquification and my subsequent elimination of all carbohydrates. Edward Cullen makes straight A's. Edward Cullen is smart, motivated, and sensible. Edward Cullen plays soccer simply because he likes it. Edward Cullen reeks of pure Dawson Leery. He even has Bella "Singing Birds Dress Me in the Morning" Swan as his Joey Potter. Despite all this, I sometimes recognize an air of dissatisfaction about him, but I imagine it's just my perma-foggy state.

Bella, by the way, is currently expressing her oh-so-sophisticated views on _The Great Gatsby_. "Jay Gatsby was the ultimate tragic romantic," she declares in her meek little voice. "He worked his whole life, from the day he left the army, to win Daisy's heart…"

And so on and so on. Here's the thing: I love _The Great Gatsby_. Rich, classy people swilling gin before the complications of technology? Sign me up. However, I always found Jay Gatsby to be fucking pathetic. Who did he earn his wealth for? Some pretty little thing, devoid of any character, strength, or personality. Daisy floated around, glomming onto anything that screamed "MONEY!" only giving into her heart when she learns that Gatsby is a) loaded and b) has a lot of great fucking shirts. Yet everybody latches on to this stupid little whore, completely ignoring Jordan Baker, who, yes, is a bit of a dyke, but is also 500 times more confident and determined. If everyone ran around with Gatsby's single-minded obsession, we'd all end up dead in a pool somewhere.

I register an eerie silence and realize that I have just said all of this aloud.

And Edward "Americana" Cullen is looking at me with the strangest smile on his face.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **What do you think? I'm not entirely sure where I'm headed at this point. Is Rosalie too foul-mouthed or do we like her as a crass bitch? How about Emmett? I haven't really developed him yet. Review review review! :-D


	4. Chapter 3

_Dropping your bombs now, on all we've built, how does it feel now to watch it burn, burn, burn? -deadmau5_

The first thing you learn from the Rich People Book of Standards and Rules, 21st Century Edition is that you don't fuck up. The second rule is: if you (heaven forbid) fuck up, ignore it. Pretend it didn't happen. If you pretend it didn't happen, the lesser folk will have no ammunition against you. This is why, after English, I plaster a grin on my face. _Why, of course I meant to come down with verbal diarrhea in the midst of a pointless English class. Only an IDIOT would do that by ACCIDENT._ Everything is fine. Nobody says anything. Mike Newton still keeps his eyes aimed directly at my tits and Jessica Stanley still asks for me to be her assignment partner in last period calculus, even though she knows I'm fucking terrible at anything that involves numbers (except weight management, drug deals or notches on my bedpost).

And Edward Fucking Cullen grins shiftily at me again from across the room.

* * *

A random aside. One more thing I hate about myself: I bruise easily. This could be because:

1. I've been a vegetarian since I stopped suckling at my mother's teat.

2. I consume at most 1,600 calories a day, but roughly 800 of these come from alcohol.

3. Insanely low blood pressure runs in the Hale family, just like alcoholism, detachment, and Humanoid-Android Syndrome.

4. I'm quite possibly a female hemophiliac.

Whether it's rough sex or a simple stumble in the wrong direction, my skin always betrays me. I despise it. It shows weakness. It shows that I, Rosalie Fucking Hale, may possibly, potentially, MAYBE be capable of feeling. She may—alert the presses—_lose her cool sometimes_ and she may. Just. Break.

Nobody can know I am made of broken pieces.

* * *

And this is the part where I lose my shit in private, where it's _supposed_ to happen.

It's 3:30 PM and I find myself dodging Emmett, telling him I have to stretch for cheerleading practice. Ladies, if you ever have to avoid a guy, but still want to keep him on his toes, tell him you have to go to yoga, pilates, or some other activity that requires inhuman positions held for prolonged amounts of time. It places images of naked downward-facing dogs in his one-tracked mind and he'll let you off the hook simply so he can tame his little brain.

Reality? Fuck the glamour. I'm not stretching. As cheerleading captain, I have the illustrious duty of walking around, yelling, making impossible demands like a rabid beast, while doing little to no physical activity myself. No, at 3:35 PM, I find myself in front of the vending machine. And at 3:40 PM, I find myself hiding in the science wing bathroom stall, eating a third pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

For a second, I feel real again.

And like clockwork, I flashback to being little. This was when my mother was making love to my father, not just having sex with his money. Jasper and I would bring home our report cards and, if they were all A's (they always were), she'd give me Reese's for being suchagoodlittlegirl. Eventually, the Reese's turned into gift cards for oxygen facials (_youwanttobeprettydontyou?_), but for a second, I am that little girl, running free through the foothills of the Olympic Mountains. Daisies tucked in my hair.

I open my eyes.

_Rosalie, you are not that little girl anymore. You are completely and utterly flawed and what the fuck are you doing?_

So, like a rewound symphony that you've heard one too many times, I push eject.

And the familiar, embracing numbness of calculated control returns.

* * *

I am trying to focus on toe touches and basket tosses when I finally make my way towards the football field, which is why I don't notice immediately when I bump into a rather solid, boy-shaped mass.

Of course it's Edward Fucking Cullen.

With that damn smirk.

Again.

And he speaks. "Easy there, Galadriel. Trying to save the elves or something?"

I can't think of anything to do but stretch my smile a bit wider. "Hello, Edward. Pleasant speaking to you, but I'm late for practice, so if you would kindly fuck off. Ta-ta!" And off I charge, like a Kentucky Derby horse.

Until I feel a hand on my arm. So I turn, and Edward "Dawson Leery's Severed Soul" Cullen speaks again.

"Rosalie..."

He's not smiling this time. He's...frowning. The same way you would frown when you're drunk and hungry and all of the Pop-Tarts are gone, or perhaps the way you'd frown when you see a pathetic injured kitten without a mother. And I can't even smile this time. I just stare, like Alice lost in her Wonderland, unable to control her body size or surroundings and quite unsure of how to maintain her fucking control.

"Who broke you?"

* * *

**ED'S NOTE**: Bah! I suck at updating! That's what you get for having a full-time job. But don't worry, I'll try to be better! Don't worry, Emmett and Rosalie are nowhere near done...I still have to develop him ;) Reviews = love!


	5. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Twilight, I would turn _Breaking Dawn_ into a musical. But since that isn't happening, I obviously don't own it ^_^_

* * *

_"I always say I love you / When I mean turn out the light. / And I say let's run away / When I just mean stay the night." -The Magnetic Fields_

"Who broke you?" askes Edward "Failed Cash Cab Host" Cullen.

Here are the possible answers that ran through my head:

My parents, who decided to make their marriage look like a fucking beautiful illusion, who throw an elaborate party every anniversary, but fucking hate each other and have affairs with people 20 years their junior at any possible chance.

My brother, who seems to be able to handle and enjoy the empty sex from which I can't fathom gaining genuine pleasure.

My friends, who want to be me for no other reason than that I have a trust fund and blonde hair and perky tits and for other ephemeral reasons that will be null and void in 10 years, unless I, like my peers are bound to do, stoop to Botox and lip injections and the wise silicone-sculptural advice of Edward "Americana" Cullen's fucking father, Dooocccctor Carlisle Cullen.

Society, who expects me to be completely fucking okay with all of the above.

I'm not fucking okay with any of it.

But Edward "I Glitter As I Walk" Cullen doesn't need to know any of this, so I shoot him a Whitestrips-blinding smile.

"Edward," I stretch my smile wider until I can only imagine what a condescending bitch I look like. "The only thing broken is my track to cheerleading practice. I am, in case you didn't know, the captain. Now if you and your fucking Lord of the Rings references will kindly get the hell out of my way, it would make my life 500% more convenient."

He just chuckles that stupid fucking crooked-smiley-giggle and, before he steps majestically to the side, says, "The fact that you caught the Lord of the Rings reference speaks volumes."

Rosalie Hale does not acknowledge such tomfoolery, and I stride off into the glory that is Forks High Jocks Wonderland, a.k.a. the football field after school.

* * *

Nighttime. Here's the routine.

I love to think this is real.

That it means something. That, beyond my breasts and hips, I mean something. Love. Lust, at least.

He loves me.

He took me to senior prom.

He continues to thrust. Up, down, even sideways. I'm not going to lie to you—it's good. Emmett knows what he's doing. Like an interstate, he knows exactly where he's going. He knows the shortest way to get there. If, for some reason, there's a roadblock, he knows exactly how to bypass it. He, despite his mammal instincts, is not a bad person. A horny, high school male, yes. But he has a heart.

* * *

_Two years ago. After the homecoming dance._

_I'm sitting in the parking lot. I'm throwing up. This, to me, is not abnormal. I'm used to throwing up once, if not thrice, a day ._

_Royce. Royce "The King" King invited me. How creative to fashion your senior nickname after your fucking last name, right?_

_It was the first time I partook in adult beverages. Ever. I used to have these…illusions of innocence. But Royce…seemed so safe. He made me feel secure. I had never felt the need to feel pretty, unlike some girls, mind you. I'd been fawned over for my since birth. It's not as exciting as one would think. When someone made me feel emotionally safe, though (no I wont leave you no I wont abandon you no I wont cheat on you no your parents are fucking idiots and I by all that im worth will never ever wish that upon you)…that's just not something I could walk away from._

_So I took a swig or three from his flask when proffered._

_I couldn't handle it. It was the first alcohol I'd imbibed, by the way, so give me some sympathy when I say that straight Jim Beam was a bit much._

_Hence me in the parking lot._

_And I'm sitting there, hurling my guts out, trying not to stain my taffeta dress. It wasn't a terrible pastel number like most of the girls had, mind you. It was a vintage Betsy Johnson. Burgundy, strapless, knee-length—left some mystery, unlike the ass-high spandex numbers most of the sophowhores were begging to shed. Oh, by the way, Rosalie Fucking Hale shops at thrift shops sometimes. I'm a sucker for a) Mad Men and b) having pieces that nobody else owns._

_"Hey."_

_I ignore it._

_"Hey?"_

_I still ignore it._

_A large mass of muscle and confidence wedges its way in front of me._

_"Rosalie."_

_I eyeball this intruder through my (now tangled) mess of blonde hair._

_"Can I help you?" I snarl through acid-scented teeth._

_And he has the audacity to chuckle. Laugh, if you will._

_"Victim to The King. Your fault for taking a date with the lousiest nickname in the universe."_

_I glare._

_I try to make a smart comeback, but more rejected whiskey arises instead._

_He just strokes my hair._

_"Everyone makes mistakes. This is your first of many. I know how you are. I've watched you. Your secret is safe with me."_

_I try to glare again, but I'm still relatively conscious enough to realize that my eyes simply read as a plea. A fucking armistice just waiting to be signed._

_He, somehow, understands this. Makes the most adorable pout and, quite literally, crosses his heart with his sausage-sized index finger._

_"Cross my heart, hope to die. Let me drive you home."_

_I find it in my drunken heart to sass. "You…are…not 16. Can't drive. Drunk. Right."_

_And there's that massive chuckle again. "I haven't had one sip of alcohol tonight. Plus, my dad's the mayor. Nobody will pull me over, license or no."_

_So he takes me home._

_He doesn't try anything._

_And I decide that he, Emmett, will be the one person that will see me. The real me. The Rosalie Hale that's not in utter fucking control of every aspect of her shallow little life._

* * *

And I should not be thinking about these things while Emmett is on top of me, shoving his girth into every hollow, so I roll him over. It takes the brute strength of a fucking angry ox, but I manage to get on top. I know that he hates to see me in charge, but I'm so angry today, I simply. Can't. Play. Submissive.

And I want to make him happy.

Yes, he's a meathead. Yes, he counts his protein grams more than his blessings. Yes, he might spend more time getting dressed in the morning that I do. But he is a genuinely good man, and even I can't find it inside my soul to break if off yet. I figure I'll end up fucking it up eventually anyway, so why do it on purpose right now?

And while I ride him, hear him moan, feel him tense beneath me, I pray. I pray that, someday, he finds someone. Someone beautiful, motivated, sassy. Someone who can tame him.

Someone who can feel.

Because that girl is not me.

...Sometimes I believe that feelings still exist within me.

And as we curl up to sleep, I can't help but wonder...how would this feel with Edward "Love-Based Sex Only, Please" Cullen?

Magical?

Embarrassing?

Disappointing?

Best orgasm?

The same?

And then I mentally fucking slap myself as I wonder if Bella moans for him.

* * *

**AN:** Ahhhhh I DO love Emmett! Trust me, he won't be an asshole. I tried to develop that a bit more in this chapter. Feedback is always loved-I'm not sure where exactly to take Bella! I've always been into the ExR match-up, but who knows?...


	6. Chapter 5

**AN: I don't own Twilight, yadda yadda yadda.**

* * *

_"Head on close, hang on before you lose control" _-Phoenix

Ponder, if you will, the concept of fire. We're terrified of it. Cities have multiple departments dedicated to taming fire. Humans are, quite simply, afraid of being burned. Interpret this in any metaphorical sense you wish. Funny that there's roughly 47 million smokers in America. People who would cry and scream and flail at the sight of one stray flame in their home hold a stick of fire to their lips once, twice, five times a day.

Control. It all boils down to control. If you can control the fire, it's not threatening. Hold the measured flame at a predetermined distance on a slowly dissolving stick of dried up fucking leaves and it tends to lose its terror.

(if you can control your life, it's not threatening)

(but who can really control their life?)

* * *

Lauren is, in many ways, the epitome of my generation. I closely inspect her as I breathe deep drags from my pre-first-period Parliament since her constant babble does not really necessitate paying attention.

I've known Lauren since I moved to Forks in the third grade. Lauren was, at the time, my neighbor. Lauren invited me over to watch _Clueless_ and drink sodas. It's funny to think of a time when hanging out did not involve fucking up one's chemical balance with illegal substances in some way, shape or form. Lauren and I both decided we wanted to be Cher. Lauren, because Cher was popular. I, because she had that killer wardrobe. Almost ten years later, and look at us.

Lauren, with her dishwater hair bleached to a drought-starved corn-silk blonde.

Lauren, with her skin marinated to a crispy orange tan.

Lauren, with legs so awkwardly long she doesn't know what to do but swath them with miniscule bits of fabric and hope someone pays attention.

Lauren, with her sad brown eyes smothered in layers of black eyeliner.

Lauren, the first person I knew to lose her virginity at the ripe age of thirteen.

Lauren, who cried about it to me for months after the fact.

Lauren, who brags about it now, because it makes her seem "mature" and "experienced" and not "slutty" and "desperate" and "even more lost than Rosalie Fucking Hale might be."

Lauren, who I know for a fact is quite smart, but has hidden it from, not only others, but herself for so long that I fear she may not be able to find it again.

Lauren, who I happen to know is trying to bang Emmett behind my back.

* * *

_It's the last day of junior year. I am walking to the boys' locker room because I finished my AP US History final exam in about 5 minutes. When your teacher is creepily in love with you, you've found you can wear a low-cut top and get away with this._

_Please, don't be a pervert. I'm walking to the boy's locker room because they have a dry sauna and the girls' locker room does not. Nobody will be in there this time of the school day._

_But hark! Voices in the locker room! I'd recognize that put-on girlish whine anywhere. Lauren! I wait outside milady's secret conferencing spot and eavesdrop._

"…_self-serving. She's only dating you for the social leverage, Em!"_

_A pause. A sigh. "Lauren. She's your best friend. She's my girlfriend. You can't just say things like that and—"_

"_SHE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT YOU!"_

"_That's not true."_

_A girlish, semi-melodramaticized sniff. "You don't know her like I do, Em. She…she, like, doesn't feel. She's just looking out for number one."_

"_And? What makes you different, Lauren?"_

_Another dramatic sigh. "Emmett, I…I…I love you. I…have for…a while. You just…you never…you never saw…"_

_A manly sigh this time. A pause. A flood of Lauren's sobs. I'm guessing he's hugging her. "Lauren. You don't mean that."_

"_I DO!" Muffled._

"_Listen. Everything is going to be alright, okay? Our friendship means a lot. I'll worry about me. You worry about you."_

"_But…"_

"_Trust me."_

* * *

You can see why it's ironic that the next sentence that pops out of Lauren's mouth is:

"…and it's supposed to be sooo nice this weekend, so we're going to La Push, right, Lie? Ohmygosh, we can work on our tans. I've gotten soooo pale. You're bringing Emmett, right?"

And I just smile a slow, drippingpoisonbeeswax smile at her.

"Of course I will. He comes wherever I go, right?"

I sense a quick falter in her façade before her plastic grin gets even larger. "Awesome! It's going to be soooo much fun. I'll steal some of Dad's scotch! We'll be soooo classy."

I register that Alice, who is sucking a cigarette beside me, has been strangely quiet this whole time. "Hey Lauren, mind if Edward comes? He's had these weird notions of family bonding ever since rewatching _The Godfather_."

Lauren snorts. "Is he bringing BELL-LUH?" She says her name like it's a venereal disease.

Alice pauses. "I'm not sure. I can't see Bella being in the sun, but you know how they are."

Alice and Lauren stare at me. I forget, sometimes, that I tend to hold the burden of the final say. I stub out my cigarette and stand up, smoothing out my linen miniskirt. "Edward can come," I lazily say. "We do not have to pay attention to Bella."

Edward "Product of a Nuclear Family" Cullen. I picture his strange copper hair gleaming in the sunlight. I bet he'll wear aviators. I bet he'll bring some really pretentious paperback, and I'm willing to bet further that it's _The Sorrows of Young Werther_. A beat-up copy, bought from a thrift store that somehow acquired a library's copy. A library in Des Moines.

I wonder if he will, indeed, bring Bella. I wonder if, while the rest of us are getting wasted by some giant bonfire, they'll wander off to some tidepool. It will be chilly and she, little frail idiot, will be cold, so he'll take off his (J. Crew? Navy? Cashmere blend) pullover and tuck it around her shoulders. And she'll tilt her head and smile at him with big doe eyes and an idiotic smile and he'll brush her unstyled hair away from her fucking delicate face. Tuck a piece lovingly behind her unpierced ear. He'll kiss her on the forehead and wrap a toned arm around her and they'll watch the goddamn sunset sink behind the Pacific while, in a less Stephenie-Meyer-like area of the beach, Mike Newton is trying to drunkenly grab my tits while Emmett high fives his jock friends about some new bitch that's giving them all blowjobs.

I wonder if Edward will wear a shirt?

I mentally kick myself.

Emmett appears out of nowhere, grabs my hand, and we strut towards Forks Fucking High, a seeming power couple ready to cut down another day.

* * *

**AN**: I know I suck at updating, but inspiration doesn't hit me very much! Please leave reviews, I love 'em ;)


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